


Fredericksburg

by sloganeer



Series: Panic at the West Wing [1]
Category: Panic At The Disco, The West Wing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-11
Updated: 2008-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-03 00:44:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sloganeer/pseuds/sloganeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't supposed to rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fredericksburg

**Author's Note:**

> Let me direct you to this post: http://wearemany.livejournal.com/738533.html. ljuser=rossetti and ljuser=wearemany made this happen. I just wrote the thing.

It's raining in Fredericksburg, Virginia, and Spencer Smith is looking for an umbrella.

"How about a Students for Seaborn sign?" Brendon asks, holding it up, navy blue letters on gray posterboard, the university colors. He holds it over his head. "Like this," he says, "to keep dry."

"That's not quite what I'm looking for," Spencer tells him, but he does duck undercover to check his phone. "Have you seen the senator?"

"Tell him no tie," Brendon reminds him, as Spencer walks away. "They're college kids!" Brendon is always reminding them about the college kids. He says they hold the vote.

Spencer is wearing a black shirt--no tie--and charcoal slacks, but the rain's doing a number on his favorite white loafers. It wasn't supposed to rain. The kids crowded on the football field are in Seaborn t-shirts and khaki shorts. When the plane landed this morning, Spencer watched a photographer walk out in flip flops. He wouldn't want to be that guy right now.

Someone has laid down boards in front of the bus, and Spencer is saved from the worst of the mud. Inside, the bus is quiet. It's nice--it means people are probably out somewhere doing their jobs. It also means the senator is out somewhere, too, and Spencer has to keep looking. But Spencer double checks. He always double checks.

"Senator? Sir, are you in here?"

"They're backstage already," a low voice behind the couch says.

"Ryan?" Spencer finds him on the floor, back against the couch, and legs tucked up. He's trying to write with his tiny notebook on his knees. "I thought the speech was done."

"Written," Ryan says. "Not done."

The notebook closes as soon as Spencer takes a spot on the couch. He puts a hand on Ryan's shoulder. "You don't suck."

"Today, my words do."

There's a Seaborn for America t-shirt crumpled on the back of the couch. Spencer uses it to dry his hair and wipe the mud from his shoes. He finds one last umbrella in the closet.

"Let's go," he says, holding out a hand to help Ryan off the floor. "Let's see what the senator has to say about that."

Ryan smiles, but shakes his head. "I want to get this right. I've got forty-five minutes."

"More like thirty," Spencer says, checking his watch on the way out the door. He pops his umbrella and braves the storm outside.

On his way to the stage, Spencer is stopped by two Secret Service agents who wave hello and one who asks to see his ID. Spencer tells him that the senator is waiting, but the guy doesn't care, and, standing on the field, they both sink a little further into the mud.

He digs himself out and gets to the green room, formerly the home team locker room. Ryan would appreciate the symbolism.

"Spencer, you made it." The Senator is on the bench, QB1 in blue above his head, making notes on his copy of the speech in his worn leather binder. He'll hand it over to Spencer when he's done, Spencer will pass the notes on to Ryan, and, maybe, then, the speech will be done.

"Did you need anything, sir?"

"Only your opinion." He throws a glance back to the person hidden behind a hanger of ties: red, blue, and both.

"It is a college event. Casual may be best." Spencer helps the senator on with his jacket. Sometimes, his mouth still goes dry when he stands too close. Sam Seaborn may be the most beautiful man Spencer has ever met, but, luckily, he's also brilliant. Spencer focuses on that instead.

"Any reason not to wear a tie. I like it." The senator passes the speech to Spencer, then smooths his pants and fixes his collar. He looks at Spencer and asks, "Still raining?"

Spencer brushes his bangs off his forehead. He nods.

"How long have they been waiting?"

"The kids in the front row slept overnight."

Another staffer holds out an umbrella. The senator turns to smile at Spencer. The jacket comes off again. Spencer is there to pass it to an empty hand.

"I don't know about this, sir. It's really coming down out there."

"That's not how it works, Mr. Smith." He's rolling up the sleeves of his monogrammed white shirt. "I don't walk out there in my foul weather gear. They get wet--I get wet."

Spencer texts Ryan one-handed (SPEECH NOW), he keeps one eye on the Senator (a white light surrounded by men in black), he allows one look back to make sure he has everything he needs before following out the door, and that's when Spencer sees the photographer in the room.

"You better be the guy from Reuters." He points his phone at the guy, and the camera comes up with a smile. Spencer frowns. The camera clicks.

"Jon Walker," he says. He holds out his hand, then, when Spencer just stares at it, his ID badge.

"Fine. You're allowed to be here. What are you doing taking pictures of me?"

"I'm here to shoot the campaign," he says, like that's an answer. Spencer knew that. He has lists of all the people allowed to be in the room. But that's not an answer.

"The senator's on stage."

"I know."

Spencer looks down when his phone buzzes. He hears the click of the camera again. He's gearing up to yell or walk away, but then he sees the guy's shoes. The guy from Reuters is the photographer with the flip flops.

Outside, a roar goes up, the crowd of thousands cheering, despite the rain, and Spencer is still standing backstage with the senator's speech in his hands. He holds it up to the photographer. "I have to--"

"Go, go," the guy says, waving him away, but he's right there at Spencer's heels, following him into the sound tent where Ryan and the other speechwriters are huddled around the teleprompter. He passes over the senator's notes to the writer at the keyboard, then gets out of the way. Spencer can't hear the camera clicking, not over the rain and the crowd, but he knows it must be.

He doesn't put his hand on Ryan's back, but he gets as close as he dares to say, "It's good. It's really good."

Ryan gives him a tight smile. He nods and shakes his head, a little mad. "Nope," he decides. "I can't watch."

Spencer's torn. "Do you want me to--" He looks out to where the senator is, the makeshift stage at the fifty yard line. "I have to--"

"Go," Ryan tells him. "You have to tell me if they like it." He unwinds his scarf, then winds it back again, tighter, Spencer thinks. "No, don't tell me."

"Ryan."

Between the rhythmic drop of rain on the tarp, the senator's speech begins. "We are here together," he's saying. "Together, we weather this storm."

With a deep breath, his eyes closed, Ryan listens.

"Was that you?" the photographer asks. Spencer nearly forgot Jon was there.

Ryan shakes his head. "That was him."

-

In the bus to the airport, the senator has more calls to make, no time to debrief, but they get through Spencer's stack of index cards before the plane takes off.

"Is that it? Have I talked to everyone in America? Can I sleep?"

"Only until Ohio," Spencer tells him.

The senator lets out a yawn, like he'd been holding it in. "And you? At least pretend to sleep, OK?"

Spencer nods, leaving the senator in his cabin and looking for a spot to crash. Ryan is holding court in the cabin next door, with the rest of the campaign staff. Brendon is laughing on the floor, and Ryan is laughing, too, and Spencer looks around to see if he can figure out who told the joke.

"It's up on YouTube," someone says from behind a laptop, and they all crowd around.

The rest of the plane is seats for the press, but there are a couple of rows in the back for the senator's staff. Spencer settles down there, low in his seat to avoid any photographers who may come looking. He dims the overhead light and sets his phone to vibrate. Maybe he sleeps because he startles when a body drops into the next empty seat.

"The senator is not available for photos," Spencer recites, a pretty good idea who it is without opening his eyes.

"What about that young man always at his side?" Jon asks. "He's pretty hot."

Spencer has to look then, to see Jon's eyes. Spencer always double checks. Jon's eyes look kind and true, even in the low light.

"Don't worry." He holds up his empty hands in surrender. "No camera." When his hands come down, they fall too close to Spencer's on the armrest between them.

"This isn't appropriate, Jon. You're a member of the press."

"And your candidate is sleeping, which means you're off-duty."

"The campaign never sleeps."

Jon laughs. "Oh, and you roll your eyes at me."

A steward rolls past with a cart, but Spencer waves him off. He can't be drinking coffee right now, no matter how much he wants it. He slouches down in his seat, closing his eyes, getting comfortable, and looking for sleep again.

"I'm from Chicago." Jon's voice is low. Spencer can't sleep tonight, not with Jon so close and so warm.

"What?"

"I like cats."

With Jon so close, Spencer can't hide his smile, even in the dark.

Then the plane dips, and they're both jostled in their seats.

"Not much for flying, though," Jon adds.

Turning sideways in his seat, Spencer says, "I much prefer the bus."

"Me, too!" Jon jumps up, resettling himself cross-legged, legs tucked in, facing Spencer. "You get to see the world. I mean, you can see it from the plane, but there are only so many photos of sky and cloud a guy can take, you know? Gimme the dirt and the concrete."

The senator talks about poetry happening when man untethers himself from the earth, and Ryan thinks he writes better in the air than in his office. Spencer likes the road. He can follow the line of where they've been and where they're going. But he doesn't say this. He's not the writer or the orator.

Jon fills the pause. "My cats are called Dylan and Clover."

A laugh bubbles up between them. "You're an odd man."

"You're the one in white shoes."

Spencer looks down to Jon's flip flops. Jon shrugs and counters with, "You scare the press room."

"I do?"

He nods. "Even your press secretary knows you're the gatekeeper to Senator Seaborn."

"I'm just the assistant." Spencer shakes his head.

"Spencer Smith," scoffs Jon. His tongue slips over the Ss. "You're assistant to the Democratic nominee for President of the United States of America." His voice dips low. He leans forward, and Spencer's chest goes tight.

"And you're flirting with me to get an unobstructed view of the podium."

Slowly, Jon shakes his head. "I'm really really not."

Spencer could kiss him now. Jon's waiting. He could lean in and press his lips to Jon's rough cheek and maybe his mouth. But this isn't the place, not with campaign staff up and restless, with the press two rows over, and it certainly isn't the time. The assistant to the Democratic nominee for President of the United States of America can't date a Reuters photographer before election day.

"November 5th." He didn't mean to say it out loud, but he did, and Jon hears.

Jon nods, and Jon says, "OK." He reaches up to brush the hair from Spencer's eyes. "I can wait." He moves back in his seat, sitting like a normal person. "But you have to give me your phone."

Spencer narrows his eyes at Jon, but hands it over before he goes searching Spencer's pockets himself. "These things are so cool." He plays with Spencer's iPhone longer than necessary before making his way to the address book and typing in his number. Then he holds it up to show Spencer.

"Jon," Spencer reads. "The hot one."

"I didn't want you to forget." And then Jon's taking pictures.

"You said no camera."

"I said I had no camera. Now I do."

"You suck."

Jon grabs coffee when the steward and his cart come by again. It's past one, the first rally in Dayton starts at eight, and Spencer isn't getting any sleep. They settle down, Spencer cradling his mug, and Jon hogging his phone.

He asks, "How did you get here?" and Spencer tells the story of the first time he saw Senator Seaborn speak. He's tired, and coffee maybe isn't the best idea, but when Spencer starts talking, he can't stop. He tells Jon about texting Ryan before the speech was done, and how they drove up the coast to see the next speech and the next, and then he has to tell Jon about Brendon, and before he knows it, the coffee is finished, and he's pulling the Moleskine notebook from his shirt pocket.

His phone keeps him in touch with Ryan and the senator. It holds his life. But the notebook is where Spencer keeps everything else. It's where he keeps a folded piece of newsprint, a photo of the senator speaking at a high school in Spencer's own Las Vegas neighborhood. He slips it out of its pocket and unfolds it for Jon.

"This is one of mine," Jon says. He beams.

The picture's been folded and unfolded, lines have worn through width and lengthwise, and the senator isn't even facing the camera. But each time Spencer looks at it, he remembers why Sam Seaborn needs to be president.

"The senator really liked this photo," Spencer tells him.

"Oh, the senator liked it. Does the senator ask you to keep it for him in your notebook?"

"Shut up." Spencer steals the last of Jon's coffee and then his shoulder. He's tired from the day, and the mug is warm in his hands, and Jon, under his cheek, and when he hums, Spencer can feel it.

"I was never sure what I was supposed to do with my life," Spencer admits. "Except take care of Ryan."

"Now you take care of the President," Jon whispers.

"Not yet." He smacks Jon's thigh. "Don't jinx it."

Jon takes his hand. It's the first time.

"Well, you've got my vote."


End file.
